in fairy tales we once knew
by KyhCad33
Summary: If this was any other normal fairy tale, then she would be a princess and he would be her prince. But it wasn't. She was a mere tailor that made clothes and he, her most frequent customer.


**A/N** : This was put on the back burner for a reaaally long time. But now it's done! Yay!

This is an AU in the sense that the war never happened and Oboro's parents are still alive. And the fact that Hinata is her childhood friend. And there are balls in Hoshido, for some reason. I dunno, it's weird.

 **Title** : in fairy tales we once knew  
 **Rating** : T because of, like, one(?) swear word  
 **Warning** : AU, possibly OOC, use of non-localized names (use of Byakuya, really)  
 **Genre/s** : Romance  
 **Pairing/s** : Hinata x Oboro  
 **Summary** : If this was any other normal fairy tale, then she would be a princess and he would be her prince. But it wasn't. She was a mere tailor that made clothes and he, her most frequent customer.  
 **Inspiration/s** : Cinderella!

Hope you enjoy!

 **I do not own Fire Emblem.**

* * *

The clock ticks at each passing stitch. Oboro's eyes are stinging with sleep and her stomach rumbles, but she pays them no mind. She yawns, swipes a hand on her face. She yawns again and the needle goes blurry.

One more thread, she thinks. One more thread is all she needs.

But her mind won't have it. _'Go to sleep. It's getting late. You're tired. You can finish this later.'_

She ignores her thoughts. The fire of the lamp flickers. It's almost done anyway; white dashes cross over cloth like clockwork, tiny ropes weave into patterns as she ties them all together.

"Just a bit more," she tells herself.

 _'It's getting late.'_

"Just a bit more."

The room feels dark despite all the lights. Oboro has trouble seeing red from blue, brown from black, yet she moves on. Every thread and motion ticks the clock; it's past midnight when she finally stops. Checking her progress for loose ends and crooked lines, Oboro grins lazily as she views it at arm's length.

Like the dresses all those princesses wear, she thinks it looks perfect.

It looks perfect, even though it isn't quite finished, and she falls asleep amongst discarded fabrics and rags, dress clutched close to her chest and dreaming of fairy tales that could've happened in another life.

* * *

Hinata does not fail to disappoint, and Oboro is greeted with the usual breakfast—bread with jam, a glass of water, and a freshly-picked pear. How lovely, she thinks, that he spends every morning leaving some food on her table. He's not obligated to, even if he's her childhood friend, but he still does and it makes her happy. It makes her morning when she's had a bad night, and so she reminds herself to thank him again later.

But now, as she opens up the shop for business, customers flood her mind. She jots down requests. Fix the length. Mend the holes. It's a day as slow as before. Not much work needs to be done, and Oboro spends her time wishing she could do better things at the moment.

Her mind slips back to princess dresses; she daydreams for the rest of her time.

At the end of the day, Hinata comes by to see her. She's about to close the store and flip over the 'open' sign when his cheeky face appears on the other side of the window.

He's shirtless.

Oboro groans, forces down a blush. The bell on the door rings as he slips inside. Her first thought is to berate him for his lack of clothing, because gods, he's embarrassing her, but then she notices the shirt around his waist, mangled and dirty, with rips and tears across. The words fall out of mind.

"How was your day?" he asks, a smile perched on his lips.

"Good, thanks." Her gaze flits downwards, skipping to his shirt. "Do you want me to fix that for you? It looks like a horse chewed on it."

Surprise lights his face. Then he turns sheepish, rubs the back of his neck. "Actually, yeah. If it's no problem." It isn't, of course. It never is with Hinata. "That's what happened, you know. A horse chewed it."

Snort. "Be more careful. That manual labour of yours isn't giving you extra clothes."

"Hey, blame the horse, not me."

Shrugging, Oboro eyes him for a second later, trying to hold her gaze to his face before she searches for her needle. "Well, you can also stop giving me pears for breakfast. You do it every day to spite me, I swear."

"Sour again?" She grunts. He chuckles. "I don't know why that happens. Honest. I don't do it on purpose."

"Sure you don't."

Their conversation drops after that, Oboro quietly fixing whatever mess Hinata's clothes have become, while he fixes his gaze on her sewing. She's gotten used to this over the years—this peaceful yet uncomfortable stillness—but it always unnerves her when he watches her needlework with curious eyes. It's even more blatant now, now that he's less than decent, and she focuses her attention on his shirt.

It's covered in grime and dirt and smells so unbearably like Hinata. Oboro thinks that if she closes her eyes, Hinata is all there will be in the world. Hinata and peace and quiet, synonymous yet oxymoronic. It's something she's known for years; she likes it that way.

But she keeps her eyes open. In the silence, they're the only ones here, and that's good enough for her.

* * *

Night is when she works. Tonight, at one in the morning, Oboro is still awake as the lantern flickers. Four dresses in seven days wouldn't be hard if they were the only things she had to work on, but she has other job orders she needs to do, a million other things to attend. Sleep, then, is not an option.

It's hard to keep her eyes open though, when all they want to do is close. When they do, Oboro sees dresses spiralling in her head. They sweep across a dancefloor, swaying in time with music as handsome men guide them along. A gloved hand is on the waistline, fingers trail to the small of the back, and thighs are flushed close and touching. She sees the dress skirts dance and twirl and flourish like flowers in bloom, heels clicking like solid metronomes in the beat of her own pounding heart.

It's a masterpiece, and the dresses she makes are the centre of it all.

A moment later, Oboro opens her eyes, stares at the cloth, and begins sewing.

* * *

"You're looking dead lately."

Oboro stares at Hinata with sagging eyelids. Her movements are sluggish amidst his exuberant self and it makes her envious; she wants him to share his energy. "Late night again?" he prods. There's no need to ask because there's no need to answer, but he waits patiently for her response.

She sighs, dragging a hand across her face. Images of sewing and dancing fill her head. "Yeah."

"Who's it for this time?"

"I was told in confidence."

He backs off, yet continues to press. "Must be big though," he muses. Drumming his fingers on the countertop, Oboro on any other occasion would tell him to stop, but now, it's what keeps her awake. "Tough commission?"

"Yeah."

"Huh."

"I'm supposed to have a few dresses done by the end of the week," she explains. Hinata is uncanny this way, being the type of guy she wants to share secrets with. She doesn't want to hide anything from him for too long. "Instead of being difficult, it's more like I'm pressed for time."

"So they gave you a short limit." Hinata leans over, contemplates before smiling right in front of her face. It's the sunny kind, one she's glad to see, because it makes her insides all warm and fuzzy and energized. "Well, I know you're working hard. I'm sure you'll make it look fit for a princess going to a ball, you know?"

"...Yeah." Saying the word for the third time is like magic, and it makes her smile back.

* * *

She has one more day to finish the dresses. One more day of all-nighters and Hinata bringing breakfast to her, because her brain turns too foggy to function and she can't force herself to even eat. One more day of exhaustion and sleepy smiles to customers. One more day until the princess comes to take her dresses.

Hinata stays with her that night, comes just in time to see her stamp another bandage on her fingers. "Those're a lot of cuts," he points out.

Her eyes narrow before she starts sewing. "I've noticed. I mean, I put them on myself, don't I?"

"I know. I'm just being stupid for pointing it out."

"Tactless," she tells him.

There's a laugh. And although it's Hinata's most delightful sound, she can't resist frowning. She's dead tired, it's the dead of the night. She wants him to go away. "Look," she starts, "I can't say this in a nicer way, but you're distracting me."

"Figures. Want me to shut up?" His question almost pricks her skin, and she checks the needle for blood. None. Good. She doesn't want to clean it again. "I can do that if you want. I'm good at that."

A sigh starts in her throat. "Hinata. I'm sorry, but I don't have time to humour you."

"I'll be real quiet, promise. I'll just watch you work." Her face twitches. She lifts her head to snap at him, when she sees his eyes and hesitates. Firm, resolute, _stubborn_. He's stubborn, like her but not really.

He's a different kind of stubborn. A better type of stubborn.

She's too tired to argue with him.

"Do what you want," Oboro mumbles. Her sewing is hasty to make up for lost time. There are finishing touches to do and check, and her fingers work as furiously as they can without being stung. "See if I care."

She supposes she does, then, when he keeps his word, silently looks after her, hands her bandages without a word, and drapes a blanket on her back when she finally—finally—finishes the dresses. And she supposes she cares when he plucks the needle from her hands as she lets out a strangled war cry. She's too sleepy to know what happens next, but she knows he cleans up after her and hangs the dresses so they won't wrinkle, and she thinks a tiny 'thank you' escapes her lips just as her eyelids close.

Then there's a kiss on her forehead that feels like comfort on rainy days, or hot tea in cold weather and breezes in summer heat. She isn't sure if it's just part of a dream, but if it is, then she'd like to sleep for a little longer.

* * *

When she gets up, there's a pear sitting on the table.

It's still sour, but this time, Oboro doesn't mind.

* * *

"These are gorgeous," Kamui breathes out, appraising the dresses with twinkling expression. The cloak may cover her white-blonde hair and royal insignia, but they do nothing for her crimson eyes. "Thank you so much! They're all wonderful."

Oboro lets out a sigh of relief. "The gratitude is mine, Princess. I'm glad you like them."

Kamui waves her off. "Nonsense. I can't thank you enough. In fact, _I_ should be apologizing for commissioning these within such a short time. I'm surprised—but pleased, don't take me wrong—that you managed to finish."

Her grin is infectious, and Oboro, all her nerves and apprehension gone, smiles back. "I take pride in my work and service, Princess Kamui. That includes meeting due dates."

"No no, I meant to say you are an amazing seamstress that has every right to be proud of herself." At Kamui's words, delight bursts at Oboro's seams. "So in thanks for making this without prior warning, I'll let you in on you something exciting."

"There's no need to! You've already given your payment-"

"Tsk tsk, Ms. Oboro, why don't you humour me? The public will know in due time, but I think you'd like an extra head start. You see, these dresses you've made-" Kamui spins one around, the ends bouncing with rhythm. "-are to be worn by the women of the Royal Family, me included, in an up and coming event. We'll be wearing them to a ball."

"A ball?" Oboro repeats. Disbelief engulfs her. Excitement rises. "Did you say a ball?"

Smirk turning cat-like, Kamui says, "Why yes, a ball. The Royal Family will be hosting one soon. Everyone is invited, so if you wish to come, please do."

"I-" Her mouth is dry. A ball where everyone is invited. A ball! She instantly understands what Kamui meant by 'head start,' and she clutches her skirt to steady her hands. "T-that would be an honour, my lady. I'll make it a point to go."

The eyes of the white-haired princess shine like there's an ulterior motive, but Oboro can't find one to fault. "May the Divine Dragons grant you luck then. You'll soon find that you'll need a lot of it."

* * *

As much as she wants to tell Hinata the news, she keeps her mouth shut. There's no point in telling him if he'll find out eventually. Besides, if he knows that she's staying up at night making dresses once more, he'd be terribly disappointed. She hates seeing that. Disappointment and Hinata don't mix well.

So instead, they talk about her parents, travelling merchants who are off trading goods. They're coming back in a month, and it's easy for Oboro to mask her previous excitement with this one.

"I hope they bring back strawberries. The gods know we need more of those," Hinata says, a mocking frown on his face. When he notices her twitching mouth, he laughs for her. "What did you ask for?"

"More cloth, of course."

He laughs harder. "Like usual."

"It's not my fault I have customers."

"Not your fault you're the best seamstress in the area, you mean."

A scoff. "I'm the only seamstress here." But his compliment already has her facing the other way. Unlike Kamui's, his leaves her embarrassed, the way he speaks like it's an exaggeration but means it with utmost sincerity.

He shakes his head. "What about Nakamura?"

"Nakamura Minami? She mends clothes, not makes them."

"She sews so she still counts. Besides-" He leans on the counter. Oboro leans back. "-I go to you when I need it, don't I?"

For some reason, her heart thumps. Maybe it's because he's too close. Or maybe it's because she's thinking back to when he kissed her (did he really?). Either way, it's making her flustered and nervous. It's hard to look at Hinata without her chest starting to thunder.

"...Alright. Shoo. Off you go. You're overstaying your visit." She grabs her sewing kit, the pile of clothes she needs to work, and starts heading towards her room. She hears Hinata following after her. Without realizing, her ears strain to listen to the sound of his footsteps.

It's like a comfort that he's always there.

Oboro breathes. "Strawberries."

"Huh?"

She twirls around to face him. Bewildered, he steadies himself by her arm. She pretends not to notice the heat that presses against her, that makes her heart have palpitations. "Strawberries," she tells him. "Before my parents left, I asked them to bring strawberries."

It takes a moment for it to register. Then he grins. "Really? So I can have some, right?"

"As long as you share." He lets out a whoop, and the weight in her hands lightens. Her gaze lands on the clothes Hinata took before it drops to his shoes; she notices that they're battered and muddy compared to the ones she has, stitches turned loose and fabrics tattered because of his job.

Those shoes don't fit him.

He could have better.

At that, something in her head clicks, and as they continue towards her workplace, she adds a pair of shoes to her list of things to do.

* * *

"I need more leather."

Hinata watches her face. Oboro wills herself to keep sewing. After a moment's pause, he says, "What?"

"I said, I need more leather. Could you buy some for me?"

"What? Am I your errand boy?" he jokes. Nevertheless, he pushes himself off the counter, and she feels relief as his warmth disappears from her skin. "How much do you want me to get?"

"As much as the money in the cupboard can give you." He nods, shuffling to retrieve the gold. Oboro hears the closet creaking and can't help but glance up. She sees him, squatted down with matted hair and dirty clothes and scars running over his body, but she also sees the one person she's certain she'll always have beside her.

The thought makes her insides tingle.

Her forehead feels warm.

When Hinata finds the bag of gold, he wastes no time running out his task. He's quick enough to leave that Oboro almost doesn't notice, but before he exits the store, he catches the doorframe with one hand, looks back, and calls out her name. She jumps, stares at him. His cheeky grin draws her in.

"Don't miss me too much," he tells her. "You know I won't be gone for long."

She smiles. Methodical, she sews back and forth and again. "I know you won't."

* * *

Oboro has ideas on what she wants her dress to look like, but that's exactly the problem: she has too much. She wants to add this and that and she wants to do it all, even if she doesn't have the materials for everything. She spends all her free time planning silk and ribbons, which places to put a little shine. She wants it to look perfect.

When business is slow, she takes out her drawings and fixes them to her liking. They're tiny things, products of meticulousness barely different from the last, but there's no way she's going to mess this up. She's been dreaming of going to a ball since she was little. This is her chance to do everything she's ever wanted to do.

But a dress isn't the only thing she needs. Every princess needs an escort, and what more could she ask for but a prince? Once upon a time, Oboro thought it would be Byakuya's own Prince Takumi. He's around her age—perhaps a bit older—but he's gorgeous with fair hair and pale skin, and suits almost anything you could make him wear. Plus, he's wondrous to a fault, in the way that he's the prince she's always imagined. As a little girl, she had adored him. Every time she caught a glimpse of a Royal carriage as it wandered around town, she wondered how it'd feel to be by his side.

Now though, she could make that come to reality.

But then again, there's thought of Hinata, tanned and poor and oh so very opposite from a prince. It makes her pause, makes her think, because where Prince Takumi isn't, Hinata is.

He always has been, from pears to late nights to leaning over counters. All he is can be summed up with one word: home.

Her breath hitches.

She draws.

By the time he swings by her shop, she's long hidden her papers. It's when he recounts his day—this time, the shirt-chewing horse kicked him to the ground; the devil, that's what it is—that Oboro fiddles with the idea of a prim and proper and undeniably handsome Hinata.

She realizes she rather likes that idea.

* * *

The announcement for the ball comes two weeks later. Oboro's in the middle of a transaction ("I think you'd look wonderful in a blue and white kimono, Mrs. Hatsune"), when a horn echoes throughout the streets. While her customer is curious, Oboro is thrilled. It's a messenger. Finally, the world is about to know.

As per instruction, people start flooding to the road. Oboro is on her tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of the royal herald. She spots red hair and a uniform, and a man with a paper scroll. It must be him. She comes closer to hear him speak.

"Let it be known that on the twenty-first day of the seventh month in the thirty-seventh year of Nakamura, the Royal Family of Byakuya will be holding a ball." The words are familiar; Oboro smiles.

This is it.

Then the red-haired man clears his throat, makes his voice boom louder. "This occasion is open for the public to attend." The crowd starts to mutter. "All are welcome to come, with the age restriction of thirteen and older."

The murmurs turn louder; they're impressed, feverish. Excitement begins to run wild.

But he's not done yet. "Furthermore, it is to be held in honour of finding a fiancée for Prince Takumi."

Silence.

They bask in the quiet before the uproar. Despite the noise, Oboro feels deaf, can't hear anything above her own thoughts.

What did he say?

She can't believe her ears.

"Women aged sixteen to twenty-five are eligible for this position," he continues, hushing the people into a frenzy of whispers. The girls, especially, are on the edge. "Those who wish to be considered are asked to wear a white ribbon on their wrist in order to identify themselves. By the end of the night, we will announce Prince Takumi's chosen betrothed." The messenger pauses, stops, rolls up his scroll and eyes the masses. "That would be all. Proceed with business."

* * *

The requests start flooding in. By the time the day is done, Oboro has a bit more than twenty orders to do in the span of half a month. She almost wants to pull out her hair because this is way too much work for just one person to do, and she doesn't know if she'll have the time to work on anything else but this.

Hinata, as usual, stops by when the sun sets. She's slumped over the countertop, making designs and talking to herself when he calls out from the exit, "You okay there, Oboro?"

What did he think? "Two dozen dresses in two weeks. Hinata, _please_."

"You know me, asker of stupid questions." He pauses. "Think I could help you out?"

"Can you sew?" He opens his mouth to answer. She snorts. "Of course you can't. Else you'd be mending your own clothes instead of asking me."

"Sorry."

Oboro sighs. Scratching paper with lead, she begins to wonder why he's standing next to the door, as if ready to bolt at any moment. Without him right in front of her, it feels uncanny. "No, it's okay. I should be saying that. I'm sorry. I'm just stressed."

Hinata's quiet, watches her slave away on her drawings. Oboro knows he wants to say something—she can see it on his face that struggles to form a response. It's weighing him down and it makes her uncomfortable, so she drops her pencil to ask, "What's wrong?"

He scratches his cheek. "Nothing. I just thought you'd be a bit happier."

Happy? "Why?"

His expression is pained, as if wondering if he should say it. "You know, the news about the ball..."

He doesn't need to finish the thought. Oboro huffs. "I don't have the time for that right now, Hinata."

"But you'll go anyway, right? You have a dress ready."

Her brows stitch.

"What I mean is," he amends, "you've got it all figured out. I know how you are. You'll make a dress for yourself even with all these things to do." He eyes her intensely, makes her chest thump at the wrong place and time. "...Yeah. I know you. You like Prince Takumi, don't you?"

She sits up straighter. "Huh?"

"You always gushed about him when we were younger," he continues, frowning. "You don't do it often anymore, but, well, I guess this is a good opportunity for your first love to come true, right?" He scratches his cheek again. "And, well. I'm sure you'd want to give it a shot."

"What are you say-" Oboro's throat turn dry. Blood become ice as realization dawns. "Hey. Hey, don't-"

"You're going to look great. You'll catch his attention before he knows it." He hesitates before smiling. It's not his usual smile—the sunny, toothy, eye-crinkling grin that Oboro loves. Instead, it's reserved; closed and small and almost hollow.

Her heart drops.

She's horrified.

"I'm sure you have a lot to do now though," he says, and Oboro doesn't know how to make things better. "I just came to wish you good luck, so I guess I'll see myself out now. ...Knock 'im dead, you hear?"

No. _No_. Oboro jumps up. The papers fly off the counter. "Wait! Hinata! Don't you dare leave when I'm not-"

The bell rings his exit.

* * *

As she's working on dress number six, Oboro remembers the leather shoes she said she'd make for him. She remembers how close they were to being done; she was going to give them away soon.

Stitching a seam, she recalls how warm leather was in her hands. It reminds her of Hinata, because his touches heat up her skin and make her blood rush, because his presence makes her melt right at home. Without him, something feels missing; her shop feels empty and bare. Bread and pears may sit on her table at morning, but the counter in the afternoon is awfully cold.

She misses him.

Oboro takes one last glance at the room before making up her mind. She puts the dress down. "I'm going to need to find the leather."

* * *

One week before the ball, her parents come back home. Relief seeps through her because she's barely halfway done with everything (she has to juggle between all thirty of her orders, some of them commissioned last minute), and now, her parents can help her out. When she hugs them, she lets the comfort wash over her. One, because she's glad to see them, and two, because she's never felt this lonely before.

(hinata was always there. always, always, always.)

"Welcome back," she says, her voice muffled against her mother's shirt. "How was the trip?"

"Good, good. And I assume you took care of the shop while we were gone?"

"Yes." Oboro peels herself off, stares straight into the older woman's eyes. "Mother, listen. The Royal Family is hosting a ball in a week. Can you believe it? I got so many orders, it's hard to keep up."

She laughs. "I heard! When we were travelling back home, we caught wind of the news. Is it true that Prince Takumi is to be engaged?"

Oboro winces. "Yes."

"Wonderful! This is call for celebration. To think our youngest prince will finally find a girl..."

Before she can reply, her father calls out to the two: "Hey! No time for idle chatter over there! Help me bring all this inside." There are various goods inside the caravan—exotic things from neighbouring countries, gold bags from their mercantile business, foreign silks and cloths. When she peers inside, Oboro smells something sweet, familiar, that stops her in her tracks.

Strawberries.

She insists on carrying them all into the house herself.

* * *

Dress thirty-three is a woman with rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, who starts some small talk as Oboro's mother presents her dress. "Lovely!" she says. "This looks absolutely lovely!" Then the woman smiles, cocks her head to the side. "Say, are you going to the ball too, Akemi?"

"Of course I am," Oboro's mother says. "It's going to be quite the festivity."

"Yes! And Prince Takumi is getting a fiancée. How exciting." The woman giggles. "It's a shame I'm long past the eligible age. But your daughter... Oboro, dear, are you participating in the bridal selection?"

Beside her mother, Oboro looks at the dress, feels a bit envious as she shakes her head. Her own is half-finished and forgotten under the pile of thirty other dresses; she doesn't know if she'll be able to finish it in time.

"Really? What a shame! With your looks, you'd snag him easily!"

"Now, now, Kotone." Oboro's mother glances at her daughter's grimaced blush. "Let's not tease the young one."

Kotone shakes her head. "But it's the perfect time for romance! And at her age too. Hm, unless... Oboro, tell me, has anyone caught your eye lately?"

She doesn't reply but the women seem to know her answer. Kotone gasps and grins. Her mother looks almost impressed. "What?" she asks. "Since when was this?"

Oboro doesn't even know. She doesn't know how it happened or why it did. Maybe it was always like this since the beginning. Maybe she just never realized until now.

She closes her eyes, imagines princes, and sees Hinata. "Since a long time ago, I think."

"How romantic," Kotone sings.

Oboro hums. "But he's not royalty. I always thought he would be."

Her mother knows. She sees the gleam in her eyes; mischievous and teasing. _'Hinata,'_ Akemi mouths. Oboro nods. Her mother smiles. "When you were younger, I remember you wanted to marry the prince, live in the castle, and wear all those fancy gowns. Has that changed?"

"...No," Oboro admits. For all her life, she's dreamt of that. It's not changing anytime soon. "I still want to do that all, just not with Prince Takumi. Not anymore." She shakes her head bitterly. "But doesn't that sound like wishful thinking, wanting a prince that isn't a prince? I think it's stupid."

Kotone laughs. "What? Child, I don't see your point." She grabs her dress and hangs it in front of her, letting blue cloth pool around her feet like ripples in a lake. It hides her plain clothes with pristine design, hides blemishes under embellishments. "If he isn't a prince now, then why don't you make him into one yourself?"

* * *

Though the orders are all done, Oboro still has some things left unfinished. She has a dress to complete, another outfit to make, and she has to muster up all her courage to do exactly what she wants to do.

At the same time though, she can't help but feel excited; there's some joy in proving Hinata wrong for daring to assume one thing when the opposite was true.

Leather shoes sit to her side—crisp, clean, and brand new. Whenever Oboro feels tired, she touches the material under her fingertips, gently, as if it would break otherwise. It gives her comfort despite his absence, like he's here even when he's not.

It's a good feeling.

Oboro closes her eyes to the peace and quiet, and all she can think of is how Hinata's all there is to the world.

* * *

On the day of the ball, her mother looks stunning. Handmade by herself, it's no wonder why she's the best seamstress in their house; her dress glows like liquid silver and heated glass. When she moves, it strikes people's attention as if they were matches in her hand.

Oboro's own dress is exactly how she imagined it to be: dark blue base with orange strokes that slit on the side of her leg, a matching ribbon that adorns her back, navy sleeves that reach her elbows. Her gloves accent her outfit. Her heeled boots reach up to her knees. To her, it's completely perfect.

In her arms, there's a shirt, a ribbon, a bag, and a pair of shoes she's learned to love. Her mother eyes them carefully. "Your father and I are heading to the castle in a short while," she says. "How about you, Oboro? Would you like to walk with us?"

They both know what her answer will be.

Oboro shrugs. "I guess I'll see the both of you there."

* * *

She knocks on the door. Once, twice, it opens on the third time. Hinata's surprised, as he should be, and asks, "Oboro? Is that you?"

"Hi. Hello." She lets herself in, barges without a warning, and sets her things on the nearest table. Eyeing him down, she's exasperated. He's confused. "You're a total disaster. Don't tell me you expect to visit the Royal Family like _this_."

"What-?"

Oboro clicks her tongue. "I'm going to need a brush. Your hair looks like a bird's nest." As she starts rummaging around for a comb, she points to the pair of clothes she brought with her. "Change into that. Chop, chop. Don't keep me waiting."

A moment later, he says, "Oboro."

"You're still there? I told you to get changed."

"Oboro," he repeats. This time, she hears the severity in his voice so she looks up. His eyes aren't on her. "What are you doing here?"

She stands. Oboro isn't quite as tall as he is, having to tiptoe to sweep the bangs off his face, but she squishes his cheeks in her hands and he's forced to look at her. "I'm getting you ready. What else would I be doing?"

"But I'm not going to the ball."

"Like hell you are. I made something for you to wear, so you're going whether you like it or not."

He blinks. "Those...you made that for me?"

"That's what I said."

"I thought-"

"Whatever it is, you thought wrong." Letting him go, her back turns to him. "I'm mad at you, you know. You assumed about my feelings and left before I could even explain. You were being rude. You were being selfish. I didn't see you once in the past two weeks so I know you were avoiding me. What kind of 'encouraging friend' is that? Bastard."

He winces. "I'm sorry."

She grabs the clothes, huffs, and presses them against his chest. Now that she's taken a good look at his face, Oboro can't help but stare a little longer. As she lets her hand linger on him, it's her turn to look away. "Well," she says. "I was supposed to be angry. But every time I thought of you, I felt sad instead. I was lonely. I missed you. Gods, Hinata, I don't care anymore. I just want you back beside me."

She hears him breathe.

"...I'm not rich," he says.

"That's true."

"And I don't live in a castle."

"Of course you don't."

"So I can't be the one to make all your dreams come true."

Wide-eyed, she starts laughing. "Hinata, don't be silly. Come with me to the ball and you _will_."

That's when it clicks. That's when he gets it. His own eyes widen, his own mouth laughs. Covering his face with both hands, Oboro sees the corner of his eyes glistening. "W-what? Oh man, I'm- I mean- You can't be serious, I can't-"

"I have a ribbon," she says. "But it's not white. Our store ran out of that and I didn't bother making any more. It's purple instead."

He's almost hysterical.

"I also made you new shoes. The ones you have are ratty and they don't look good on anyone, let alone someone who's going to be seen with me."

He's crying. Taking the clothes from her, he says, "Wait here. I'm going to change."

She shakes her head. "I'm not going anywhere."

True to her word, she stays exactly where she is until he comes back, all dapper, refreshed, and clear of tears. Oboro ties the ribbon on her wrist and thumps it on him ("look, we match") before handing over his shoes. He slips them on ("are they okay?" "they feel perfect, thank you"), extends an arm ("you look beautiful, by the way"), and she slips her hand in his ("took you long enough, idiot"). When they go outside, the night is settling in but it's far from cold, and Oboro leans in to flush her body closer against Hinata's. In response, he squeezes her hand.

They eye the road before them: long, beaten, and winding. "I can't give you a carriage either," he says, chuckles.

She grins. "It's okay. We can put your new shoes into use."


End file.
